Nevada Sky
by Tidwell
Summary: After eight months on the road it was time to face the inevitable.


House was in the shower when Wilson died. For the better part of two hours, he had been half lying, half sitting beside his failing friend on the king-size bed. The blinds were raised and outside the sun dipped low in the Nevada sky. It was as if a palette of tempera paints had been set on fire, the brilliant purples, golds streaking across the aerial landscape to create a magnificent sunset.

They were grimy from the road but showering seemed like too much work after a day of dust and heat and bad roadside food. After arriving at the Ash Springs Motel, Wilson had been too exhausted to do anything but fall into bed and tumble immediately into a heavy doze. House had a bad feeling as he pulled off his friend's riding boots and set them neatly by the nightstand. He tried to assuage his niggling concern by telling himself they were both guys, after all. And showering wasn't always a priority with guys (_Wilson always considered it essential_). But Wilson was tired. Yes, and so was he.

The cancer that had invaded Wilson's body eight months ago seemed to be easing its grip over the past three weeks. After a scare in Colorado, where Wilson's strength had flagged to its lowest ebb since they had begun this road trip, Wilson whizzed back into action. He dragged House from barroom to barroom in whatever town they were holed up in for the night. He chatted up women, slept with a few, always returning to the motel room in the pre-dawn hours. Sometimes House was there, watching an ancient movie or asleep. Other times he was out, spending quality time with a perky breasted young thing, either at her place or a different hotel (never in close proximity to Wilson). His physical needs occasionally won out over his simmering desire to remain without female company for the duration of this trip. Distractions like the balm of sex were for future days when he would need them more than he did now. Now Wilson's decline had turned steep and treacherous;House's time with his friend was slowly trickling down. A sickly pallor was again taking the place of Wilson's once ruddy complexion. He was sliding, skittering, tumbling, riding a boulder down a landslide. With all his medical chops, there was nothing House could do to stop the momentum. And Wilson wouldn't hear of further treatment.

"_When it's time, just let me go," Wilson said on the first day of this journey._

_House's silence was his only sign of disapproval._

"_I mean it, House. Promise me, or I'll turn this bike around and go home."_

_Silence again, this time coupled with a quick nod._

He was tied, bound by a promise he had been forced to keep.

The latest chapter in Wilson's decline began only yesterday soon after they crossed the Utah border into Nevada. House could tell from the sag of Wilson's shoulders as he rode his bike, from the sheen of perspiration on his face when they sat across each other in the diner.

"You're not good."

Wilson scrubbed his face with a napkin. Shoulders slumping lower than before, he leaned his elbows on the table. Bowing his head, he looked like he was trying to catch his breath after a long race.

"Don't start this," he said. "I'm fine."

House glared at him. "Compared to what?"

Wilson wasn't fine. He picked at his food and slept fitfully in the hotel they chose as their rest stop in the center of this half-assed excuse for a town. A Rexall on one corner, a saloon on the other. The Alameda hotel was couched between the two. Wilson's exhaustion would let him go no farther that day. House figured (wished, hoped) Vegas would energize Wilson again, but they never made it that far.

They did make it to Ash Springs, Nevada, which was 108 miles north of Vegas. From the brochure in their room at the Ash Springs Lodge, House learned that the town's name came from its hot springs aptly dubbed Big Ash and Little Ash.

_(ashestoashesashestoashesashe stoashes...)_

"Wanna go to Big Ash?" House shook the brochure at his sleeping friend. "It's just down the road. Hot springs. Good for what ails you."

Wilson's breathing was much too shallow. House placed to fingers against his friend's neck to check his pulse. He then retrieved his stethoscope from the pocket of his riding jacket, pressing it against Wilson's chest to make sure his inner workings were still trudging on.

Satisfied Wilson was still with him, House placed the stethoscope between them, sank back against his pillow and continued. "Only 150 people live in this vibrant little community." He glanced up from the glossy page. "Fewer morons to deal with. Could be a good place to stay for a while."

The air conditioner rattled and shuddered but filled the room with blessedly cool air. House closed his eyes. His thoughts skittered away from what he was sure the next few hours would bring. Instead he thought of riding, of his bike purring underneath him like a satisfied lover. He may have dozed a bit; when he blinked his eyes open, he gazed out the window to see the sun had slid lower on the horizon. The shadows in the room were long now, draping themselves over the end of the bed, the nightstand, and Wilson's riding boots.

The remnants of road grime had infiltrated his pores, making him itch and chafe. A hot shower suddenly seemed like the most glorious of luxuries. He fit the tips of the stethoscope in his ears, pressing the metal disc against Wilson's chest. Listening, listening. Wilson's heartbeat had slowed. His blood pressure, House knew, was falling. The shadows melted and merged and now filled the room, casting a greyish pall over everything, despite the brilliant riot of color outside the window.

"I need a shower," House said, watching Wilson for any sign of acknowledgement: a grunt, a shrug. Nothing. He felt again for a pulse and was rewarded with a faint flutter. Pressing his lips together, he made his way to the bathroom.

The Magellan shower head did its job well, emitting a delicious needle-like spray against House's back, then his chest. He scrubbed his hair with a bit of pale yellow hotel shampoo, then pressed his head against the tile, letting the sensation of heat and water pressure soothe him. He thought of Wilson, alone in the next room, slipping slowly away. House knew he should be in there now. But he was useless. Like the thousands of family members he'd observed over the years, seated by bedsides as death muscled in to get its due.

_When it's time, just let me go._

After drying himself with the cushy Ash Springs Hotel towel, he sat on the closed toilet to slip on his jeans. In his pocket was a bottle of Vicodin. He had managed to go without his pills for a couple of days but now he caved to their lure and promise to ease at least some of his pain. The pills felt good on his tongue and he rolled them around his mouth a couple of times before dry swallowing. After a moment, he stood and steadied himself against the door frame before returning to the bedroom.

The room was blanketed by a darkness that was almost complete, save for the last of the failing daylight casting a grey puddle on the windowsill. House made his way carefully across the room, brushing his fingers against landmarks as he hobbled along: a chair, a table, the TV cabinet, until he finally made it to Wilson's side of the bed. House sat and brushed his fingers along Wilson's brow, his cheek. The skin was cool to the touch. The stethoscope, House knew, was on the bed where House had left it earlier but he felt no need to reach for it. It wouldn't tell him anything he didn't already know.

He shifted, cradling Wilson's head in his lap as he looked toward the sky, at the sun that glowed glorious and golden for one final moment before dipping below the horizon to welcome the night.


End file.
